Many of Horror
by sexyvanillatiger
Summary: Like all great things, it starts with a kiss; Puck/Sam. Slash. PWP.


Like all great things, it starts with a kiss.

Two, really. One horribly misplaced and the second had in the same sense as a second dive into a frozen lake. Both of them coming out a little less cold. Sam's eyes bright for being so grey under the bitter cold of the night sky, Puck's breath like ice in the chilled inches between them. Sam has the good sense to wear gloves and Puck does not. Their skin doesn't touch when they grab for each other's hand, and the only warmth is in the brief brush of their gazes.

"Dude, you kissed me."

Puck scowls. "Shut up."

Sam seems hardly phased despite the way his mouth twists in distaste, like the moment isn't quite as worth the snow in his hair anymore, but he doesn't pull his hand out of Puck's. And for that, Puck smiles and tugs him along the solitary sidewalk. Winter around them is no wonderland but it's difficult to discern the stars from the snowflakes, so in their memories it will always be something like Heaven in a hailstorm.

One kiss dodged on accident, the second accompanied by a trembling, iron grasp on his jaw just to make sure he doesn't move again. And later, he'll promise that the first time, he wouldn't have looked down had he seen it coming, but he was almost certain Puck was actually going to punch him.

"Why would I punch you?" is the insulted, indignant reply, and Sam just shrugs and pretends that his jacket isn't being pulled off of his shoulders. Instead, reaches forward to grab Puck by the base of his mohawk and lead him into a kiss, a kiss to which he quickly surrenders when both of his hands and pinned to the wall behind him and his jacket is jerked to the ground. He's inches from reminding Puck of how cold it is, but for some reason, he can't think of anywhere else they can really do this. At least nobody looms cruel and controlling against the side brick wall of Sheets-N-Things, where only the dim lighting from a streetlamp in the distance can see them.

But Sam's eyes are closed, so Sam can't see it in return. He can only see stars danc the backs of his eyelids, dancing to the happy melody of breathlessness as Puck shows him what the cougars know. He fights against the firm, flesh shackles around his wrists only to have his entire body jailed against the wall and this time, he's not complaining. Puck, simply by pressing against him, cages him into the limited confines of _only as far as we can breathe_. Sam breathes sharply and pulls his gloved hands free so he can run them under Puck's shirt.

"You aren't going to go around telling people, are you?" he wonders aloud when Puck rains kisses over the jagged chattering of his jaw. Because as certain as Sam is that Puck would never, he really needs to know, and the way his voice wavers makes him certain that Puck knows exactly what he's talking about, so he has no idea what to say when Puck cooly asks him,

"Tell people what?"

Puck leans up to tongue the rim of his ear, drawing a gasp and a weak, mumbled curse. Sam pulls his hands away from the toned stomach beneath them and reaches up, instead, to clutch at Puck's jacket, clutch desperately to him.

"Tell them how much you like being fucked in public? Right up against the wall?"

Sam's breath hitches and Puck squeezes his ass through his jeans, only a brief tease before his calloused hands dip quick and smooth beneath the waistband of his shorts and pull him closer with an experienced grip. One finger presses against his entrance, presses in smooth like threading a needle. Sam whimpers.

"Tell them you're just a pretty cockslut?"

There is no reason Puck's low voice right against his ear should be turning him on this way. Not the things he's saying, no, not the near menacing tone of his voice. The finger moving expertly inside him, though...

"Tell them you're gay?"

"I'm not gay."

Puck stops and leans back, lips tight and brow furrowed when Sam looks up at him. He swallows nervously and shrugs, meaning to look down at the ground but only able to see their hips pressed so tight together that he can almost feel the imprint of denim on his arousal. He closes his eyes and wonders if his faux pas couldn't be rectified by a really, really good blowjob. Puck has always seemed easy like that, anyways.

"What do you mean you're not gay? It's just us out here. You can drop the charades."

Sam shakes his head defiantly and Puck just grumbles something and rolls his eyes before disregarding it, and that's all Sam can really ask for. Besides, he's starting to really get cold and he pushes his body desperately closer to Puck because the guy is radiating warmth like he lives in the sweet gaze of the sun. Puck just bites at his neck hard enough to leave bruises. Sam moans like nobody will see them.

"Turn around. I wanna try something."

Sam blindly obeys, single threads from his gloves catching on the rough face of the brick as he steadies himself. Legs spread as far as his jeans will let them as they're pulled down to tightly halo his quivering thighs. Puck wastes no time in dropping to his knees, spreading him wide and licking him right down the middle, and Sam hits his head on the wall a little harder than he wishes he did when his entire body bows away in surprise. Puck just grabs him by the hips, counteracts him and holds him firmly in place as he resumes this torturous endeavor, his tongue inside him as rough and forceful as the rest of him. Sam squirms against his grip, pushes and pulls and is put right back into his place every time. His breathing gets high and tight and he feels like he'll fall to ribbons if Puck doesn't just do something right now.

Tells him so, and he's got two fingers in his ass before he can say _or else I'll_. His speech is broken by gasping moans. Moans broken by desperate breaths. Breaths broken by Puck curling his fingers a few inches in and tearing apart his ability to breathe altogether. He just gapes and rocks himself back against the fingers in stiff, jerky movements.

Puck rises from his knees in the same way that the waves will rise up, seeking the moon. Smooth and overpowering (like there was ever any other way). Produces from his back pocket a condom and Sam only catches glimpses of the gold foil before he lets his head hang between his hunched shoulders. The wrapper is torn, tossed down to their feet and suddenly three fingers are in his ass. Puck drapes himself across Sam's back. Lips against his ear,

"You love this, don't you? Me opening you up with my tongue so I can fuck you until you scream," and he punctuates this by twisting his fingers just, oh _yeah_, just like that until the only thing holding Sam up is that brick wall. He clutches at it, wanting nothing more than to hold himself up for Puck, but it's too much weight and he drops to his knees with one solid build right behind him.

And Puck doesn't wait for his okay. It's sexy but scary the way he just pulls his fingers out and the very next second breeches his entrance with the head, lubricated only by the condom and damn if it doesn't hurt enough to blur his vision. Sam bites his lip, bites it hard and turns his head up to stare at the sky. He doesn't say anything.

It seems that for his silence, the devil gives him sympathy. Puck doesn't move for what feels like ages. Nothing stirs in the night air but the shallowness of their breathing, nothing but the slight twitch of Puck's fingers as they settle calmly against his hips. They trace the dip of his bones, follow downward until they grasp his thighs, pulling them a little further apart and digging jeans deeper into his flesh. The longest seconds pass before the thought strikes him that Puck is waiting for his signal to move.

Still, it's just a theory. So when Sam nods and Puck begins his tempered cadence, it strikes him as a mild surprise. His jaw slackens and his eyes screw shut and he gasps out a few breaths before it starts to feel like some semblance of pleasure, before the heavy drag of Puck's body within his own is something he suddenly desires and he pushes back in a rhythm equal and opposite that of his friend.

Puck gives a muffled grunt and clutches Sam's body tighter, clutches him closer, warmer. More like he's holding a shooting star than the chilled, trembling flesh of his teammate. Sam takes it as it is and extends his fingers like he's trying to touch all the bricks before curling them into fists. He tries to ration out his breaths, but Puck has hips that speak Samba in eight different languages, and before he can count the seconds slipping through his closed hands, he's finding that any breath is a good breath.

The pleasure is dizzying and the breathlessness is intoxicating and the pain pulsing in his cold, wet knees isn't even a fleeting thought in his mind when Puck reaches down and grasps his arousal in a grip like death and taxes. Brushes the gravel from his hand and gives him a reason to feel pretty; his heartbeat in his ear or the quiet, involuntary tears in his eyes remind him that this is a mortal thing.

And he comes breathing Puck's given name.

The longest minutes pass waiting for Puck to finish. Staring silently at the wall and trembling and hoping that maybe they'll hold hands on the walk home, too. The overcast blanket of a night sky is enough to hide them, enough to keep them wrapped together in the folds of each other's security. He hopes that the blindness of the world will be enough of a pitch to sell the idea, and—and—_oh_. Sam gasps, Puck freezes, pulses, and retreats.

Sam falls back on his haunches, the fluttering of air in his lungs still erratic and sporadic and somewhat at the whim of Puck's eyes all over him when he turns his head over his shoulder. He manages to get his back up against the wall and his pants back up around his hips. Reaches for his jacket, finds it wet with dirty snow and shivers. Puck's mouth twists and he pulls his own coat off, draping it grudgingly over Sam's t-shirt before pulling his sleeves down over his hands as far as they'll go.

As they walk, Sam drags his wet jacket along with one hand. The other is tucked in Puck's pocket, cradled by fingers dancing a slow, smooth course over his gloved knuckles. When they reach his house, he lingers, like maybe he'll sneak Puck in if he really thinks he can do it. In the end, he quietly gives the coat back and smiles. Puck doesn't leave until the porch light goes out.

Like all great things, it doesn't just _end_


End file.
